Chapter 15
The empty icon showing that Sebastian is logged out of the security system stares back at me, devoid of my Alpha’s ever-watchful presence.
I refresh the app for the twentieth time this hour, but Sebastian remains offline, each camera showing the disarray my apartment has fallen into over the past five days.
I snatch up my phone, my fingers trembling as I type yet another text.
Micah
Please answer me.
At least let me know that you’re alive.
The message sits beneath a wall of blue bubbles, each one sent into a void of no replies.
My phone screen dims, and I toss it onto the couch cushion beside me, where it sinks into the nest of unwashed blankets and discarded hoodies I’ve been rotating through.
The Mark on my neck pulses with phantom heat, and my hand lifts to touch the smooth ring of skin before I can stop myself. I didn’t consent to it, but I would have. The plan had always been to let Sebastian Mark me during my Heat.
But not like this. Not with him bolting the morning after, leaving nothing but a handwritten apology on my nightstand.
I’m sorry. I took advantage. You deserve better. —S
Eight words. That’s all he left me with after three days of passion, after sinking his teeth into my neck and changing my life forever.
My apartment reeks of sweat and stale takeout. Coffee mugs form a cityscape across every surface, ring stains marking the passage of sleepless nights. Pizza boxes lean against the trash can, which needs to be emptied.
I stare at my laptop, where the screen has fallen asleep, leaving a glossy, black surface to reflect my face. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath my eyes, and my hair sticks up in greasy spikes from running my hands through it too many times. Five days without showering will do that.
“Coward,” I whisper to the empty room, uncertain if I mean Sebastian or myself. “Fucking coward.”
My phone vibrates, and I lunge for it, heart racing, only to find a notification from my bank.
The text glares back at me: PAYMENT FAILED. Twice. Rent and utilities. My stomach drops, a burn rising in my throat like I swallowed acid. All the cameras in the world can’t stop the slow unraveling of the life I built for myself.
The stream used to pay for everything. My apartment, my independence, and my freedom to choose when to let someone close.
Now I can’t even keep the lights on without leaning on Saint.
I’ve been off-camera for almost two weeks now. No streams, no income. All because Sebastian convinced me to go dark while we tracked down Travis.
I kick at a pile of clothes, sending them skittering across the hardwood floor, and my foot connects with a solid object beneath the fabric. Wincing, I bend to retrieve the box Sebastian’s dildos arrived in, now empty because I flung them at the wall the day after he left.
We’d been so excited for my Heat, and instead, it ruined everything.
A knock at the door pulls me upright, my pulse quickening.
Saint has a key, and Sebastian… Well, Sebastian has no intention to return.
Another knock, more insistent.
I set the box down and creep toward the door, paranoia sliding cold fingers down my spine. The peephole reveals a bored delivery person holding a package and scanning the hallway.
My palm flattens on the door, fingers spread. “Who is it?”
“Delivery for Micah Barnes.”
My stomach clenches. “Leave it at the door.”
The delivery person sighs. “Need a signature.”
I run through my options. Ignore them and risk them coming back? Or face my fear and deal with this? Five days of silence have left me raw, angry, and reckless.
I unlatch the door, leaving the chain on, and peer through the crack. “Slide the pad through.”
With a roll of his eyes, the delivery person pushes an electronic signature pad through the narrow opening. I scribble a signature with shaking fingers and pass it back, watching as he props the package against the door frame.
“Have a nice day,” he calls over his shoulder, already heading for the elevator.
After they disappear, I count to ten before I unhook the chain and snatch the package, slamming the door behind me. The locks slide into place with satisfying clicks. One, two, three.
The package weighs little, wrapped in brown paper with my name and address printed in computer-generated font. No return address.
I peel back the tape to reveal a manila envelope, and inside—
I drop the glossy eight-by-ten photo of myself, taken through my apartment window. The angle suggests it was shot from the building across the street, capturing me in profile as I worked at my desk, taken before the blackout curtains went up.
But the image itself isn’t what turns my blood to ice. Red scribbles block out my face, with crude words scrawled across my chest.
Slut.
Cock tease.
Go live or else.
My breath comes faster, struggling to hold on to the oxygen. The room tilts as I stumble back, knocking into the coffee table and sending mugs crashing to the floor. Coffee splashes across the carpet, staining the cuffs of my sweatpants.
I can’t fill my lungs. Can’t think past the roaring in my ears. The walls of my apartment press inward, and the curtains over the windows now feel pointless.
Travis is watching, and Sebastian is gone, no longer monitoring my safety.
I’m alone.
My legs give out, and I slide to the floor, back to the wall, knees pulled to my chest. The photo lies face-up a few feet away, my defaced image a grotesque mockery of the control I thought I had over my life and my body.
Crawling to the couch, I fumble to find my phone in the pile of blankets and unlock the screen.
My thumb hovers over Sebastian’s contact for a heartbeat before I swipe away, scrolling down to the only other person I can trust.
Saint.
He picks up on the second ring. “This better be good. I’m in the middle of—”
“Can you come over?” The words tumble out, my throat tight. “Please.”
The background noise on his end cuts off. “What happened?”
“Another package.” I swallow hard, throat clicking with dryness. “A photo.”
A pause, followed by the sound of keys jingling. “Are your doors locked?”
“Yes.”
“Windows?”
“Yes, Saint, everything’s locked.”
“Stay away from them, anyway.” The slam of a door punctuates his words. “I’ll be there in twenty. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
“Okay.” The word comes out small, childlike.
“Micah.” He softens a fraction. “You hear me? Stay put. I’m coming.”
The call ends, and silence crashes back over the apartment.
Twenty minutes. I can keep it together for twenty minutes.
I take in the disaster zone of my living room, and a spark of pride ignites through my fear. I might be falling apart, but I don’t need Saint to see how bad it’s gotten.
I grab an armful of coffee mugs, where they clatter together.
Dark liquid splashes across my T-shirt. Sebastian’s T-shirt, which I found stuffed between the mattress and headboard five days ago.
The faint scent of his pheromones still clings to the fabric, though my own sweat and misery cover most of it.
The dishwasher stands half-open, already filled with crusty plates. I stack the mugs in the sink instead, before I attack the takeout containers, stuffing them into a garbage bag until it bulges.
In the living room, I clean up the coffee spill and kick a pile of clothes under the couch. My fingers brush the photo, still lying face-up on the floor, and I recoil as if burned. Grabbing it by the corner, I shove it into a drawer in my desk, slamming it shut with more force than necessary.
A key in the lock, when it comes, still startles me enough to drop the socks I just picked up. The door pushes open a crack before the chain stops it.
Saint calls through the gap. “Micah, it’s me.”
I rush over, fumbling to take the chain off and yank the door open. Saint stands in the hallway, leather jacket zipped despite the building’s overheated corridors, scanning me from head to toe.
He brushes past me into the apartment, the scent of cold autumn air clinging to his clothes. His gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the half-hearted cleanup, the coffee stains, and the overflowing trash bag.
“This place looks like shit.” He turns to face me. “And so do you.”
My fingers rise to my greasy hair. “Thanks for the news bulletin.”
He shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair. “When’s the last time you showered?”
“Not sure. Maybe Sunday.” I close the door, triple-checking the locks.
Saint frowns. “You eating?”
I gesture toward the bulging trash bag. “Obviously.”
“Right.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Show me what came today.”
My stomach clenches as I move to the desk, pulling open the drawer to retrieve the photo.
Saint takes it, his expression hardening as he examines the defaced image. “Where was this taken from?”
“Building across the street, I think. Same angle as the last ones.” I sink onto the couch, pulling a throw pillow into my lap. “That’s number four.”
“Four?” Saint’s head snaps up. “You only told me about two.”
Heat rises to my face. “The third came while Sebastian was here. He took it with him. Said he’d deal with it.”
Saint’s jaw tightens at the mention of Sebastian. “Fat lot of good that did.” He holds up the photo. “When did you get this one?”
“About an hour ago.” My fingers dig into the pillow. “Delivery guy needed a signature.”
“You opened the door?” he demands in disbelief.
“Through the chain.” I sink deeper into the couch. “I didn’t want them coming back.”
Saint sets the photo face down on the coffee table. “Any other mail? Calls? Messages online?”
I shake my head. “I closed all my accounts when Sebastian installed the cameras. No streams, no messages, nothing.”
“So you quit camming because of this stalker?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with suspicion. Saint knows me well enough to spot the hesitation before I speak.
“Not exactly.” I pick at a loose thread on the pillow. “Sebastian asked me to stop.”
Saint’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sebastian asked?”